I'm Your Secret, You're My Worst Friend
by battyderp
Summary: 'Ponine is once again thrown out onto the cold, unforgiving streets after her brief stint in jail. Friendly faces are few and far between, and as such, comfort can be found in the most unlikely of places. One-shot.


_A/N: Hi, guys! Sorry this is so horribly long – just tell me if you'd like me to break it into chapters or anything. I'm actually not that happy with it, but ah well. This is kind of the first in a three-part instalment, though I'm not completely you could really call it that – more completely different Éponasse fics that mention things that happened in previous stories ahaha._

_So, review if you like. I know, it's awful, and my deepest apologies if any part seems out of character. We all have a different take on 'Parnasse/'Ponine, and Montparnasse in general. This is just mine, my loves. C:_

_xx_

The streetlamps cast fuzzy, reddish pools of light upon the cold streets that reeked of piss, blood and vomit; between them were great, looming shadows – one could easily have concealed themselves in the darkness and never be seen. They seemed alive – Paris always seemed to be watching you, judging you, preying on you. Few ventured out after the sun went down. Night was the time for prostitutes, gamins, murderers and crooks. The young man that lurked on the streets looked to be nothing more than a bourgeois dandy caught out in the moonlight, but then one would look again and see that he seemed perfectly comfortable on the vicious territory; he swung his cane as he walked, steps confident, head held high, not even casting an eye into the shadows when most would be nervously skittering about.

But one must not mistake this for looking happy about where he was – he may not have felt any fear, but his eyes displayed a startling amount of hatred and disdain, even sorrow, for his surroundings; his handsome cherry lips had four expressions: his charming smile, his predatory smile, his arrogant, every-day expression, and then his slight sneer – this was the one he wore at the moment.

He was the shadow you would catch a glimpse of out of the corner of your eye; you would whip your head around, wide-eyed, searching, fear pooling in the pit of your stomach. You turn to see only the tail of a black coat slipping around the corner. He makes no footsteps as he moves; footsteps are for the living. He is a ghost – the ghost of a young man, the ghost of a cat. On the outside, he is living – he is beautiful. On the inside, he is dead.

This particular fearsome shadow, with the stunning face that hid a killer, had no clue where his feet were leading him, but he let them act as guide, seeming to know exactly where he was going to any onlooker. Various ladies of the night stepped forward to offer their services a little more excitedly than they usually did, more than happy to spend a little time with this rare beauty. Even so, unlike others, he could take his pick, and politely declined, playing the part of the gentleman he had struggled to secure for so long even then, gently brushing them aside, though within he was spitting at their feet and wondering scornfully how they could possibly resort to such acts. He continued on his way, his small chuckle making itself known as a short exhale of air from his nose at the soft murmurs of admiration from behind him.

"'Parnasse!"

He glanced over at the sound of his name called by the voice he knew well, drawing to a halt and holding his cane under his arm; sure enough, there was the eldest Thénardier girl - there was Éponine – making her way hurriedly towards him. Her quick pace was in no way a suggestion that she feared the streets she walked on, for that was not the case – raised a little by her parents, a little by herself, but mostly by the mother, Paris. No, that was simply her way, running from one place to the other, never able to stay still for long, most likely habit after all the winters she had spent having to move around, lest she should freeze.

"'Ponine," he greeted her coolly as she stopped in front of him, panting. Montparnasse frowned a little as his dark gaze swept over her – she was even scrawnier than she had been before she had been locked in the slammer. This was certainly no surprise, and he had expected no less, but there was something rather confronting about seeing it in the flesh – not that she had much still clinging to her frail, skeleton-like form. There was still the tiniest trace of beauty lingering on her face, and despite his vain nature, he managed to recognise that.

She took a moment to catch her breath, holding up a hand; Montparnasse waited, righting himself, eyes flicking to the dark clouds that had just drifted over the pale wane moon. Finally, she smiled. "Didn't you hear me, 'Parnasse?" Éponine demanded good-naturedly, prison unable to crush her spirited nature. "I've been calling your name for blocks! Was your ego blocking your ears, or was it those whores?" She doubled over in a fit of laughter, to which Montparnasse raised his eyebrows but couldn't hold back a small, crooked smile that managed to look carnivorous – it didn't bother her in the slightest. "And here I was thinking you'd be waiting outside the jail for me, flower in hand. Oh, silly me! Well, aren't you going to ask? Alright, I'll save you the bother! I'll spill! Being locked up wasn't all that bad – I had 'Zelma to keep me company."

Pausing, she sniffed and bit her lip, glancing around, appearing somewhat disappointed. "But after having food every day, at the same time, on the dot, no matter how bad, I don't know how I'll go back to this!" She swept her arm around pointedly, indicating the cold, gloomy streets.

Montparnasse shrugged, leaning on his cane. "You'll find a way to pull through, 'Ponine," he replied calmly. "You always do." That was when his gaze found what she was wearing – or, rather, what she was not. Her sharp collarbones were exposed, as were her knees, feet and most of her arms, her skin a bright, mottled red where the harsh, icy winds had battered it – it was bordering on indecent. Winter was almost upon them. He had seen her like this before, certainly, but it was all the more confronting now. It made bile rise in his throat, and when he thought about how he so often inwardly complained about the cold whilst wearing his best redingote, he almost felt guilty. Almost.

For a minute there was silence in which Montparnasse inspected her with growing concern, with Éponine seeming to be lost in thought. Finally, just as she opened her mouth and prepared to leave, he lashed out a hand and caught her arm, almost cringing at her freezing flesh. She raised her eyes to frown at him. "Walk with me awhile." He would usually have spoken with charming authority and certainty – after all, what sane woman would turn him down? But 'Ponine was not completely sane, and he found himself absently hoping she would agree, to allow him to look after her for just a little bit; if he ever voiced this, he knew that she would raise her chin and stubbornly state that she could look after herself.

Éponine remained quiet for a moment, before nodding and slipping her arm through his; once she came into contact with him, he felt her press a little more against him, as though trying to seek more warmth without losing her pride. When Montparnasse glanced down at her curiously, she continued to stare straight ahead and avert her gaze for a second, before looking up and sticking out her chin, perking her eyebrows as though challenging him, daring him to say anything. He quirked an eyebrow, the corners of his lips twitching, before he began to lead them down the sidewalk.

"You seen my brother around the place?" 'Ponine spoke up, eyes flickering back and forth, absorbing everything, missing nothing, as though something would have changed whilst she had been cooped up.

'Parnasse's cane clinked on the cobblestones as they walked. "Here and there," he answered, resisting the urge to chuckle at the thought of Gavroche. "Runnin' about, nicking what he can, breakin' windows when he can't. He got into a little bit of trouble with the cops last week, but I…" He hesitated, before finishing. "Cleared things up." He felt a dull flash of pride as he recalled how he had managed to avoid staining his shirt with any of the policeman's blood – that would have been a real hassle.

"Did you now!" she exclaimed, nodding. Anyone else may have been fooled by his lack of interest into taking what he said another way – such as perhaps thinking that Montparnasse had bailed the little ragamuffin out. But she was a big girl, and understood the implication all too well. He opened his mouth to say something more, but cut himself off when he felt her shiver against his side – was that her teeth chattering?

Sighing as though it were a burden, Montparnasse placed a hand lightly, yet securely, on her waist to stop her. Éponine turned to face him as they drew to a halt, fingers twitching upwards as though she so desperately wanted to rub her arms in a feeble effort to keep herself warm but was unwilling to show weakness. Did she not realise that she did not have to hide from him? Clearly not – and it was she that so often scolded him for not putting his trust in other people! It exasperated him, irritated him, and almost hurt him. But why in hell should he give a damn?

Slipping out of his worn, black coat, he slung it over her blue shoulders, cold skin sending goosebumps racing up his arms. "Here," he grunted, not wanting to admit, even to himself, that it made him feel slightly better to see that at least she wouldn't freeze to death that particular night. Not so long as he was around.

Éponine's eyes widened impossibly but she took the redingote nevertheless, tucking it tightly around her. "What's this?"

"What do you think it is, 'Ponine? One guess, and it's not fried chicken." Lifting up the coat slightly, he grumbled when she tugged it back around her: "C'mon, let me under, I'm down to my shirt and vest!"

"Ah!" Shooting him an apologetic look, she held open the redingote, one hand clutching it to her other shoulder; it seemed to him that not even Brujon would be able to pry her from the coat. Montparnasse ducked under it, one arm slipping subconsciously around her hips in order for them both to share the warmth without making it tedious; neither of them thought much of the contact, having done far worse in the shadows. But what seemed to surprise them both was the fact that he was being so gentle, almost nurturing, when usually he would simply grab her wrist, spin her around, cup her cheek roughly and kiss her somewhat violently – it was in his nature. What was different now? He had no idea, but it disturbed him.

Darkness had well and truly consumed the city by now, and even the ladies of the night proceeded with steps of added caution. But not those two figures – they owned the place. The king may have ruled over France, but when it came down to it, he had no real power; the power was in the hands of those that lived there, those that witnessed the seedy underbelly first-hand. The king could send armies, but the prowlers that made up Paris' dark heart struck in the night, and were twice as effective, twice as feared, twice as respected.

The acrid smell that 'Ponine's filthy skin, hair and clothes gave off drifted up to meet his nose, but it didn't bother him much. She wouldn't be her if she carried the sweet aroma of rosewater and lilies – it is hard to respect someone like that. As they walked, 'Ponine took to using her free hand to fiddle with the fingers of Montparnasse that had found themselves around her waist; she poked, prodded, tickled, stroked, grazed, scratched accidentally a few times only to squeeze his elegant fingers and run her knuckles along his skin apologetically. It seemed as though she wasn't aware of what she was doing, head once more in the clouds. He allowed her to play, and eventually it faded into the background until he could scarcely feel it anymore.

When they passed a bakery that was preparing to close its doors for the night, Montparnasse left Éponine outside with his coat. She was beaming with glee at the prospect of being fed two nights in a row! He hid his small smile at the fact he had been the cause of her joy. Making his way inside, he didn't have to look back to know that the girl would be peering through the window, her breath fogging up the glass. Perhaps she would draw a pattern in the mist, attempt to write her name.

"Monsieur, we're closing up," the baker warned, casting an eye to 'Ponine with a barely disguised sneer.

For a split-second, Montparnasse's gaze hardened, wanting to slit his throat for looking at her in such a way, before swiftly reminding himself that he didn't care. He had looked at her like that his fair share of times – everyone had. "I'll be quick," he replied evenly, flashing him a smile. "Some bread, Monsieur. Your best kind."

The baker hesitated, before dipping his head and turning to the shelf behind him, selecting a loaf that hadn't gone hard in the open air. When he turned back, his eyebrows were raised and he jerked his chin to Éponine, dropping the bread into a paper bag. "For her?" he asked, voice arrogant as he seemed to forget he was of simple station himself. At least he could put two and two together. 'Parnasse just hoped he could make a decent loaf of bread – if not, he would take that as the final straw. And that was not something anyone wanted. "You sure she's worth it, handsome man like yourself going for a half-dead weasel?"

Montparnasse smiled again, but this time it was menacing, dripping with malice and a clear warning. "Just give me the bread, Monsieur." He leaned forward slightly, hands resting on the counter in front of him. "It would be in everyone's best interests if you would mind your tongue in the future." Reaching out, he took the packet from the baker's now trembling hands, feeling a glow of satisfaction – _still got it_ –, deposited some coins that clunked as they clattered onto the wood, nodded, turned on his heel, and strode out of the shop.

As he handed the bag to 'Ponine, his gaze flicked over to the shop window, ignoring the baker who scurried into the back of his shop at the sight of the dark prowler looking in his direction. As he had thought, she had struggled to scribble down her name in messy, loopy cursive – it was now beginning to fade, but he could still see where she had rubbed out mistakes, puffed on the glass again, and finally achieved the result she had been trying for.

"You got the fluffy, white kind!" Éponine exclaimed, drawing his attention back to her. She was peering into the bag, smiling. "Good. After all that horrid black bread in jail that scratches your throat and breaks your teeth and doesn't rot for six months, this is a blessing!" O, how sad the world of the wretched poor, to be moved so far by a loaf of bread!

_Only the best for you, 'Ponine, _he thought – it was intended as sarcastic, and yet it sounded to Montparnasse as though he were being sincere. The best? She got the worst of everything, and why should he attempt to change that instead of looking out for himself, first and foremost? He shouldn't. He wouldn't. _Idiot. _

They walked and ate, Montparnasse almost forgetting to be dignified when faced with the prospect of food. 'Ponine had no such reservations, and stuffed her face. He let her lead him across bridges, once again tucked securely under their shared redingote. The great, looming silhouette of Notre Dame was close by as they crossed a particular bridge, seeming to be the only souls in Paris. The Seine rushed beneath their feet, and 'Parnasse almost resorted back to his fretful child-self when he grew convinced the cobblestones would crumble and they would topple into the water below; he immediately banished the thought.

Éponine broke the silence, stopping to lean over the edge of the bridge; the coat dropped from her shoulders to the ground, and 'Parnasse cursed as he scooped it up and brushed it off, walking over to drape it over her once more, glaring accusingly at the girl. She took no notice. "Can you imagine jumping down there?" she murmured, awe-struck by the great river that stormed below, sounding like thunder in the quiet night.

Montparnasse's lip curled upwards slightly as he joined her, elbows resting on the bricks, inwardly concerned the rough stone would ruin his clothes. "Suicide is for the weak, 'Ponine," he reprimanded her, though he, too, was drawn into the swirling depths of the dark water. "Don't go gettin' any ideas into that little head of yours. If you think I'd come to your rescue, you are sorely mistaken, Mademoiselle."

"Ha!" That was all that was needed; her quirked eyebrows said the rest as she tilted her head to look at him. Then she nudged him in the ribs, frowning. "Why so formal, Monsieur Montparnasse? You are with a friend."

"Would you prefer I follow the lead of the rest of Patron-Minette and call you _fairy princess?_"

Éponine didn't reply, instead opting to simply roll her eyes and look away. At that moment, a slurred voice from behind made them both look around. What they saw was a drunkard, no more than thirty, with bloodshot eyes and a crooked leer on his bearded face. Montparnasse showed no emotion, blinking calmly.

The unknown man cooed: "Ooh, pretty lady." He broke off to hiccup and Montparnasse ground his jaw, clearly looking down on the stranger despite the fact he clearly had more money than the murderer and thief. He continued, "How much for a quick poke, eh?"

At first 'Parnasse wants to snort in amusement, but then he saw the effect the simple question had on the young woman beside him: her face twists, her eyes bulge in outrage, and she spits, indignant, chest heaving. _Why is she so surprised?_ He wondered, still saying nothing. He hadn't been expecting what happened next. Éponine slowly relaxed, though she was still tense; sorrow and desperation shone in her eyes as she bit her lip, throwing a look at Montparnasse that almost seemed to ask 'what else am I supposed to do?' before scraping her gaze back to the drunk, who was still waiting expectantly.

"I need that money," she muttered to herself under her breath, but Montparnasse caught it. At this, he cannot stand idly by. As 'Ponine reached out to take the man's arm, 'Parnasse pushed himself off from the small wall he had been leaning on and intervened, pushing between them. Éponine eyed him curiously, faintly relieved, but Montparnasse's eyes did not stray from where they had become fixated on the man before him.

"On your way," he growled in a low voice; they were near the same height, with the other man being somewhat bulkier and well-muscled, but in that moment Montparnasse seemed to tower over him. "And sober up. God forbid you should appear pathetic."

The drunkard let out a raucous burst of laughter, tipping back on his heel and stumbling; he used this lurch backwards as a surge of power, stepping forward to send his fist hurtling for the fop's chin, his laugh having transformed into a terrible snarl in the blink of an eye. But Montparnasse, with the acquired agility of a street cat, judged what was going to happen and merely stepped aside with the grace of a dancer, allowing the drunk to stagger past. He lashed out a hand and caught the older man's arm, using all his strength to smash him against the ground, pinning him with one knee propped against his chest; 'Parnasse didn't even break a sweat. Of course, the stupid drunk struggled and thrashed and kicked, but Montparnasse held him at bay easily.

With a flick of his wrist, he was holding his blade, forgetting the world around him, the knife an extension of himself; all he saw was the terror and the fury in the man's eyes, and it made his own gaze flash in cruel delight – he never wanted to be like this, but now that he was what he was, he was going to be the best, and he was damn well going to enjoy it. It was intoxicating. One second more and he would have finished him off. But that was when he remembered Éponine standing silently behind him; she had said nothing, hadn't tried to help. She had grown up in this environment, and being exposed to such horrors make a person more-or-less indifferent; they may care, for no one is ever truly heartless, but they accept it as a fact of life.

She had seen him kill on more than one occasion; the first time, she had cried out, and it had taken everything in Montparnasse, in the transformed version of himself that will end the life of anyone and only afterwards consider what it meant to have done so, to keep himself from slashing her throat open, too. Thankfully, Babet had been there to quiet her down. The second time, she had learnt.

Like a cat sheathing their claws, Montparnasse slowly, unwillingly, tipped back, allowing just enough space for the man to scramble to his feet and bolt in the opposite direction, appearing clear-headed once more. 'Parnasse hadn't even realised he had been holding his breath until his lungs began to scream for air. The wildfire brought on by the kill faded from his eyes. He had wanted that blood on his hands, had wanted to send a message to every piece of scum in Paris: _stay away from my Éponine._ And yet, it felt almost like a… Well, God forbid, but almost a relief that he had gone one day without ending an existence.

'Ponine still said nothing as she walked over, her bare feet making no sound, and touched Montparnasse's shoulder gently. He glanced up from where he had been staring after his escaped prey, shaky, monstrous, unrecognisable. Swallowing when she smiled faintly, he took her hand and raised himself to his feet with as much grace as he could muster, resisting the over-powering urge to lean on her. Why did it bother him so much? He had let him go. To be brought that close to killing, only to be pulled back from the brink by some… Girl. It was almost physically painful. The prospect of doing good was too much to bear. In a deep, hidden part of his soul, it was all he wanted. But he had long ago crushed that into the furthest recesses of his mind – he had accepted what he was, what he had become.

"Are you growing soft in your old age, 'Parnasse?" she whispered in her raspy voice, lips tantalisingly close to his ear. Her fingertips brushed dirt from his cheek.

Breaking away from her, he stalked ahead, frankly not quite caring if he left both she and his prized redingote behind in the cold. "Shut up, 'Ponine," he snapped over his shoulder, not looking back.

"Manners!" she cried, using humour to disguise her shock; now it was her turn to be concerned for him. He didn't need looking after! He hadn't needed that since he was a mere child. Éponine raced after him, falling in step beside him, having to walk twice as fast to keep pace with his longer legs. "You are a god boy, Monsieur, no matter what you may think."

Now Montparnasse couldn't hold back his snort. Shaking his head, he replied bluntly, "That is one thing I am not. Drop it."

The eldest Thénardier girl held up her hands in mock surrender, though she was still smiling. "Dropped."

'Parnasse continued to forge ahead, before finally slowing down, his racing heart returning to normal and no longer feeling as though it were going to erupt from his chest at any given moment. Letting out a silent exhale of air that clouded around him in the cold, he reached up a hand to right his tall hat, which had slipped slightly to the side – how had he not noticed sooner?

A light mist of rain had begun to fall, and Montparnasse only hoped that it wouldn't lead to a downpour; sleeping under bridges with Thénardier, Brujon, and the rest of Patron-Minette was all well and good, but they weren't here now, were they? No, they had all gotten themselves thrown behind bars. If it hadn't been for 'Ponine, he would be with them – though, at that moment, that didn't seem quite so dreadful. At least it would be a little warmer, though, when it came to prisons, there was really no guaranteeing that, either. Every time he had to resort to making his home in the sewers or alley ways, a small part of his proud self died, He had had such high hopes for his future, even as a street child. It had never crossed his mind that perhaps he would not win his fortune and live in an expensive house with a beautiful wife, the talk of the town, but for his elegance, not his crimes. Now, however, he had learned the hard reality. So he was forced to settle for being the most elegant of the gamins.

Watching Éponine out of the corner of his dark eyes, not wanting to give her the impression that he actually gave a damn, he saw her face turn towards the sky, and her eyes crinkle as she smiled widely. "Ah!" She spun around, arms raised to the heavens as she let raindrops clean her grubby skin. She seemed to be laughing to herself. "Rain can kill, but I have not seen it in so long, you see, and you learn to appreciate the strangest things locked up. Only two weeks in jail, you say? Two weeks without rain!" For a moment she stopped, hands clasped behind her back as she nodded to each rain drop that fell to earth before her. "Hello, little rain drop, long time no see! Yes, and you! Bonjour!"

Montparnasse dropped his head, smiling amusedly into the shadows. Finally, when the rain became too much and he was tired of standing around, he clasped his fingers around her frail little wrists, both caught easily in one hand, and dragged her into the nearest alley; she gave no protest. "You'll catch your death, 'Ponine," he grumbled as he carefully settled down on the cleanest patch of bricks, beside an old, rotting crate, careful to kick away anything that could be a danger to his clothes.

At his gesture for her to join him, Éponine slid down the wall and landed with a soft grunt, legs crossed and hands tucked into her armpits. "I have been through worse," she reminded him a little defensively.

"Then you should know better than to go dancing in the rain, idiot," he hissed. Despite his irritation derived from wariness for her health and safety, 'Parnasse still carefully spread his coat (which he had killed some young man on his way to an engagement party to acquire – what he fancied, he generally took) across both of their knees. It was nowhere near warm, but it managed to keep out most of the chill even so. 'Ponine seemed to be imagining sitting in front of a crackling, blazing fire, eyes closed and humming softly to herself; without looking at him, she drew the redingote up to her chin and leaned against Montparnasse's shoulder. At first, the contact alarmed him, not used to such innocent displays of affection in the place of more violent past-times. After a second, however, he relented and allowed himself to relax, enjoying the shared warmth despite himself.

Their stomachs were as full as they could be, even from their pitiful dinner, and somewhere along the way he forgot to feel sick, forgot that his brain was supposed to feel as though a scraping ball of cotton had been shoved in there after a few days with no food. He grew lost in thought, before realising he should savour the moment. But Montparnasse was supposed to be protecting her, not the other way around. He took care of himself – always had, always would. Women may have flocked to him, but only for the night. After that, they were gone, never to be seen again, simply melting back into the city. And he was once again left alone. It was only Éponine, and by extension Azelma, that had remained, in want of a better word, constants in his life.

He was still bracing himself for the day they, too, abandoned him – and trying to convince himself he didn't care.

That was the thing: he was trapped. Others could leave. 'Zelma, 'Ponine, they could all make lives for themselves outside of Paris if their parents decided to uproot and try again in another city – or, if all else failed, they could make a run for it. Babet had left everything to conquer Paris, he could just as easily leave to undertake another journey; who knew where Claquesous was from, but chances were he wasn't as confined as Montparnasse, either. What was keeping the fop of the house of death there – nay, what had chained him there? It was quite simple: loyalty.

Loyalty to what, you might ask? It seemed to the common eye that Montparnasse was loyal to no one but himself. But this was not true, far from it. It took a lot to earn his allegiance, even more so his respect, but Patron-Minette had done that. Whilst they all looked out for each other, to the point of putting their own lives at risk, this was a mere result of their loyalties as criminals – Montparnasse's extended beyond that. They had raised him. He had been a street urchin with nowhere to go, no one to turn to, scared and angry at the world for doing this to him, and they had taken him in.

That wasn't to say that there weren't days when he was particularly conscious of the blade tucked up his sleeve, Babet having crossed the line a little too far; that wasn't to say there weren't days when he hated the lot of them and wished for something more. But whilst they had all found their own ways into adulthood, Montparnasse had had to rely on them – when they didn't come through, he stole and foraged and charmed sous out of pockets for himself, but they always came back. They were his only family. If they left, so did he. But until that day, he was stuck. And it was not a pleasant feeling.

Besides, he had Éponine and her siblings to keep out of trouble.

Licking his lips and blinking rapidly a few times to clear his clouded mind, 'Parnasse leaned his cheek lightly on the top of 'Ponine's head. 1AM rang out. They had never spent a night together where something more didn't happen – it was almost a nice change, to simply curl up together and expect nothing from each other, though he was far from wishing to admit that. How had he let himself grow so attached to her? He swore, both inwardly and to his friends, that he would kill her if the need arose. But would he? It sickened him to think he had become so weak – whilst a part of him grew colder with every passing day, another part, the part Éponine had somehow managed to infiltrate against his wishes, thawed.

She faced him with a dilemma: on the one hand, she was close to making him want to give up killing and theft for good, making him ashamed of himself and the life he had created without even saying a word against him; yet, on the other, his blood thirst increased tenfold – he needed to protect her, to right all the wrongs done against her with more wrongs. Such was Montparnasse's sick sense of justice. Anyone else he would skin without a second thought, with a smile. That stupid little girl confused him. And it infuriated him.

He almost jumped when 'Ponine spoke, having become so used to her moulded against his body that he had forgotten she was another person. "Monsieur Montparnasse, do you remember the day we first met?"

'Parnasse grunted, subconsciously tucking one arm around her to draw her slightly closer. "Yes." He had a good memory.

"Tell me," she murmured, ducking out from under his head to set him with an exhausted stare. "I like your voice more than mine."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why tell you?" he asked, voice becoming strained as he struggled not to snap at her. More quietly, he added, a little bitterly, "I don't like to dwell on the past."

Éponine's eyes widened. Leaning back against him, drawing his hands across her frightfully thin stomach, she replied, "Really? That's all I do. Good, bad, and in between."

His fingers flexed to stop himself from digging them into her flesh irritably. "That's the difference between us, 'Ponine." Was she unable to tell when someone was uncomfortable, or was she simply oblivious? Either way, it was certainly a gift she had perfected.

"Please." It wasn't until that moment that he realised she hadn't yet spoken a single word of slang. Was he rubbing off on her, with his ability to understand all argot yet speak none, or was someone else? Something darkly akin to jealousy stirred in the recesses of his heart. It was not an emotion Montparnasse felt often – envy, yes, but not jealousy. As such, he didn't completely recognise it, but he knew that he did not care for it. In other people, it made them want to cry out. In this certain prowler, it turned him violent. Only 'Ponine's comforting hands, so rough and scarred, kept him from shaking her secrets out of her – he could have all he desired, but not she. A hypocrite? Yes. But more that he couldn't stand the thought of someone else being close to her. What had he come to? It was pathetic.

She went on, not exactly pleading, which was beneath her, but more demanding like a brat: "Don't stop your kindness now, 'Parnasse."

_Kindness! _

Rolling his eyes, he gave in – it was her first night out of the slammer, after all, and she had chosen him to spend it with. Not that she had much choice. "You were rather fetchin' back then," he began, a little unsteadily at first, yet still not allowing her time to protest _'and not now?'_ before he continued on. With others, he laid the bourgeois image on thick, however much he despised the upper class – enunciating each word, standing straight and tall, eyebrows always raised. But it was evident who he felt comfortable around, for he allowed it to slip and resorted back to his true self. "Must'a been when you were no more than eleven – me, I was twelve or thirteen, it's hard to pin-point the exact age. Whenever a new crook moves into town, we, Patron-Minette, like to sniff 'em out, get a look at them, size them up, make sure they know who's runnin' the place." They were crooks, he would call them such.

He went on, gaze flicking between the sky, the scungy wall in front of them, and the top of Éponine's head, as though trying to gauge her reaction of the telling of his point of view of the tale: "That's exactly what we were doin' when I stumbled into you. Babet and Guelemer went ahead to talk to the innkeeper and his wife. I was meant to go with them, show your father that we had apprentices and all that." Montparnasse frowned at the memory and paused for a second; at this, 'Ponine raised her eyes, nudging him as a sign to continue. "But there you were, runnin' back from God-knows-where, a copper hot on your heels. You looked terrified, but you were still laughin', clutchin' an old sous. Back then, you were still gettin' the hang of things. You weren't as good at hidin' as you are now."

"I'm flattered, 'Parnasse."

"Do you want me to tell you or not?"

She piped down.

"So I let Babet and Guelemer go on without me – which reminds me, you're responsible for the punch to the face I got from a very drunk Babet. I had a black eye for a week, 'Ponine." Even if he couldn't see it, he knew she was smiling wickedly. "Anyway, for some reason, 'cause I don't know what the hell was goin' through my mind at that moment, I grabbed you. You wanted to scream and tried to kick me, but I said 'pipe down, I'm tryin' to help you!' I hid you in an alcove. When the flatfoot stopped and asked me 'where's that girl I was chasin'?' I shrugged and said 'I don't know. Try down that way'." Montparnasse raised his eyebrows pointedly, smiling crookedly. "I saved your sorry ass, 'Ponine, and didn't even take the sous for compensation, I hope you know that."

"Oh, I do. That sous bought us all a meal."

"So I took you back to your parents. You kissed me on the cheek, though I got the impression you didn't actually trust me, thanked me, and went inside rather quickly. Afterwards, Guelemer and Babet wouldn't let up about me and you. And—are you even listening to me, 'Ponine?" It was painfully obvious that the tone of annoyance he tried to force into his voice was a show. He was simply glad she was finally able to doze once more.

Her eyelids were beginning to droop; he figured she hadn't managed to sleep much in prison. The strange thing about people whose only home is the streets that others turn up their noses at is that, when faced with a room that keeps out the chill and an actual bed, they are often unable to handle such comforts and end up curled in a cold corner, in a place they know. "Thank you, 'Parnasse," she breathed, barely above a whisper, and yet those two, simple words seemed to carry so much weight, as though she wasn't only thanking him for that. His words only seemed to register then, as she started and attempted to awaken herself by straightening, seeking to convince him she was not in the least bit tired; Montparnasse tightened his grip on her, despite being careful to not bruise her already battered skin – it seemed so fragile, yet he knew she was stronger and more hardy than many men. And certainly worthy of more respect.

"Éponine," he began a little sharply, before quickly correcting himself and finishing softly, "Sleep." At the light squeeze his hand gave hers, she nodded groggily and buried her head into his chest. With anyone else, she would have been wary of letting herself be caught off guard – anyone in her situation that wasn't terribly suspicion would be picked off at the beginning. Her pride was something else altogether, not allowing to show any vulnerability to anyone, anywhere, any time.

But she and Montparnasse had practically grown up together; certainly, they had their differences. He played the role of being indifferent to her whenever they were in public, going so far as to be cruel so as not to lose respect. They were comfortable around each other, they were close, yet they could confide only certain things to one another – which was more than they could say for anyone else. She was his exception, he was hers. Would he go so far as to say she was his closest friend?

Not opening her eyes, she mumbled into his shirt: "Good night, Monsieur. I'll understand if you're not here when I wake up."

Frowning, Montparnasse stroked her hair absently, brushing it out of her face and tucking a dusty, matted strand behind her dark ear. Something panged in his cold, shadowed heart – guilt? He didn't know what it felt like. When he had killed his first man as a mere child, he had been upset, without question, but the need to prove himself to Patron-Minette had driven him and blocked out the screams of protest in his own head. There had been no time for guilt. "Good night, 'Ponine," he answered finally.

She chuckled under her breath, head rising and falling slightly from where it rested against his chest as he breathed. The clouds continued to move across the moon, casting them into further darkness. He didn't complain. Once she drifted into unconsciousness, 'Parnasse lowered his head to place a gentle, lingering kiss on her forehead. "Sweet dreams. Don't toss and turn too much."

He awoke to find his head cradled in Éponine's lap; she was already wide awake, and despite her best efforts to keep him there a little longer, Montparnasse untangled himself from her and scrambled up into a sitting position, swiftly flicking sleep from his blurry eyes when her gaze was turned elsewhere. It would surely surprise most of Paris to know that the supposed demon slept; most of the time, he was only able to rest in short intervals, hardly deep enough to allow for dreams. That night, however, he had slept soundly, a deep, dark sleep, safe and warm in the company of one he truly cared for. There was no one to miss him.

Dawn was just broaching the sky, the sun barely having risen above the horizon; the trees and buildings were still nothing more than simple silhouettes in the distance. Traders were already milling about. The air was crisp, the light of the sun doing little to warm the streets. Somewhere out there was Gavroche. He missed the boy a little. 'Parnasse contemplated going to visit him for a second, before remembering that, if the small ragamuffin wished to see him, he would find him. All in good time. Montparnasse could be patient – with most things.

"You mumble in your sleep, y'know, 'Parnasse," Éponine chirped, running fingers through her hair in a futile effort to tease out the thick, unrelenting knots that had made themselves at home in her dark brown locks. There was almost an air of relief about her – perhaps derived from the fact he had remained with her throughout the night? He told himself his staying was because he had fallen asleep, and nothing more.

"Do I?" he asked half-heartedly, stifling a yawn. His cheeks didn't grow red with embarrassment or anything of the sort – he was confident enough to forego anything like that.

The girl nodded, finally giving up on her hair and instead opting to turn to turn to her partner in crime. "Were you dreamin'?"

"I don't dream," Montparnasse replied simply. This wasn't true; he did dream, and when he did they were dark and confusing. But he merely didn't remember them all too well afterwards. Besides, he found no value in them. They caused only heartache – or, at least, had, until he had stopped caring and attempted to rid himself of his humanity. It hadn't worked, but he made sure no one else was aware of this.

"How sad!" With that, 'Ponine drew up to her full height and made her way to the mouth of the alley. With the brilliance of the rising sun behind her, she looked angelic, the blinding light erasing the dark bags under her eyes, her cracked lips and rags for a dress.

Against his will, the fop, too, was on his feet and beside her before he could stop himself. He slipped back into his redingote, tugging it back into shape. With it back on, he felt changed and raised his chin. He didn't ask where she was going to go now. Chances were, not even she knew. Yet there was a look in her eyes, one that told the only man able to read her mind that she had a goal. Where? He didn't give a damn.

Breaking out into a small smile, Éponine dusted off her clothes, never taking her eyes off of him. He gazed down at her silently, lips pursed, arms held rigidly by his sides. "I'll see you 'round, then," she told him.

"I would warn you to stay out of trouble," he replied, lips twitching as he fought back an amused smile. "But when have you ever headed my advice before, eh?"

"Oh, you'd be surprised, 'Parnasse." Then her eyes dropped and swept over his attire. When she spoke again, she sounded almost bitterly envious. "I'd forgotten how elegant you look."

Elegant? At this, he straightened even further, smiling proudly. But the look was wiped off of his young face when 'Ponine stepped forward without warning, pressing her lips to his cheek. They lingered there for a moment, the irritatingly innocent gesture making him shiver. When she pulled back, her lips were quirked earnestly. "Still get the impression I don't fully trust you, Monsieur?"

Montparnasse didn't reply, afraid of what would come out if he did; he almost forgot to look dignified. He could only imagine what Babet would say if he saw him so flustered and caught off guard – and for what? It was nothing new. They had certainly kissed before. Yet it had never been so… Loving was not quite the right word. Nurturing, perhaps? Yes. Nurturing. Of course, his equivalent of 'flustered' appeared nothing more than cool and calm to any onlooker. For this, he was grateful.

With that, Éponine turned and began down the sidewalk, not looking back. He was left there, desperately wanting to grab her arm, throw her against a wall and ravish her. But he refrained. She deserved more than love in the early hours of morning and nothing in the day. He hadn't seen that until now – it would never have bothered him before.

He hadn't even realised how much he had missed her.

Shit, he needed a drink.


End file.
